Scars of the Loba
by sweethoneyeyelashes
Summary: A fellow hunter from Puerto Rico gets caught up with the Winchester boys -big surprise. But a bummed ride to another town after their encounter becomes much, much more.
1. Chapter 1

_San Juan, Puerto Rico -June, 1989._

_It's funny how big events stick in your head. Usually it's only the bad stuff too. I only have fuzzy, faraway memories of time spent with my grandmother. But I remember her death every day, crystal clear, like it's being played for me on the big screen._

_I was only six that summer, still young enough to enjoy the dirt under my feet, but old enough to start to question my background. My parents were long dead and I had no memory of them. I'd been living with my grandparents for all but the first two months of my life –and it had never bothered me before that year. My history was kept pretty much under wraps. I do remember whispering, passed looks between my grandparents whenever I'd ask. I was fairly good at reading people even at a young age and I always felt some unrest. Some unsolved piece of me. Half missing. I always thirsted for answers. I was insatiable and would never be full with the sparse lies I was fed. Unfortunately, the summer of '89 I _got_ my answers. Though I wish with all my heart I hadn't. _

_I was playing in the field behind my grandparents house. The sun was setting but still scorched the dirt with harsh Puerto Rican fire that our village was famous for. I was brown skinned and wild, laughing and playing fetch with the stray dog we'd taken a liking to in the last year. My Grandmother was fashioning a basket close to my play area to keep watch over me –I was always exploring, learning, giving both my caretakers headaches when I could. _

_I remember a growl. A low, guttural sound that made everything else seem to quiet. A smile froze on my face and my laughter dissolved. A pitiful yelp from my sweet honey colored dog came from my right and I saw the usually heroic animal cower in fear from something hidden away from sight. That monstrous growl came again, closer. I gust of hot, foul breath came from the bush at my right and stirred up my sun bleached hair. It was only then the world started to fade back and I heard my grandmother screaming. _

"_Lola! Mi hija! En la casa! Volve a la casa!" _

_I had never heard her so panicked, so loud. My abuela was usually such a gentle woman. But I could not follow her orders. I wanted to run back to the house but my feet were frozen to the ground. A disgusting purr of breath stirred the bushes again and then suddenly from behind me there was a terrible roar. The throaty screech of something that sounded like a lion stretched in the air and shattered. I finally found the strength to spin around. When I did, I saw everything in what seemed like slow motion. My abuela had scrambled out of her chair but only made it a few feet from it before this huge, dark mass tackled her to the ground. At that time I was so young all I could think of was a monster. It was this massive, hairy thing with shoulder blades taller than me and teeth the size of steak knives. It had a long snout and black eyes. I watched it dig a massive paw full of daggers for claws into my grandmother's back. Her skin ripped. Red splashed across the dirt. I remember her screams. _

_My grandfather burst from the door on the porch. Something silver glittered in his hand but there was too much going on for me to watch him for long. My eyes darted from him to the soaked red, disfigured body of my grandmother, and then left to where I felt that hot, rank breath on me again. I didn't have time to scream. The second monster came at me and I felt white hot pain all down my left side. _

_BANG!_

_I remember a shot. Loud and clear as day. I had fallen to the ground with no knowledge of how I'd gotten there and saw the monster rear above me with massive paws before howling darkly and falling to its side. White spots clouded my vision. I felt something warm under me. I was swimming in the feeling. It was hot, sticky -pungent. Then I faded. _

_And I don't remember a second after that. The next thing I new I was awake in a crude hospital bed with my abuelo by my side, ready to tell me a long, long story. I won't bore you with it. If you're a hunter like me, you probably have a similar story or have heard countless others like it. My parents died when I was born at the will of the supernatural. My father and grandfather had taken up the family tradition of hunting down evil –killing what others couldn't fathom, sending things back where they belonged. Of course when you kill for generations, you're bound to make some enemies. And you're bound to have things stalk you and hunt you down, swear vengeance. The things that killed my grandmother and nearly killed me were not monsters, they were two pissed off werewolves.  
_

_And the only reason I'd survived the attack was because 1.) the bastard only hit me once before my abuelo put a bullet through it, and 2.)you don't kill evil for generations and not make a few friends along the way either. My grandfather called in a favor, a modern day medicine man to work some voodoo on me. I was saved by the skin on my teeth. A six year old against a werewolf isn't pretty odds, so I guess I'm pretty fucking lucky. And my saving came with an added bonus. The magic or crazy ass voodoo the guy used changed me. Not only did it pull me back from the brink of death, but it gave me this…ability. I know it's going to sound stupid as fuck -but ever since the accident I've been able to heal people. Ironic really, because I was given all that power and still couldn't heal myself.  
_

_Six years old and on, I was cursed with scars to remind me what had happened. The entire left side of my face -save for my eye- is carved up pretty good with three deep incisions that extend all the way down to my jaw and throat. My lip turns down so it looks like I'm always scowling on that side. My arm has the same jagged raised wounds down to the back of my hand and there's some residual scarring on my chest and my side. There's some damage to my thigh as well but it only goes to my knee and then stops. But yeah –try making friends when you're seven years old, have just seen your grandmother massacred and look like Frankenstein's Latina bride._

_I grew up a lonely little girl. I grew up hardened, isolated. I had all the time in the world to learn from my grandfather who started teaching me the ways of the supernatural once it couldn't be kept a secret any longer. I grew up mean, tough and vengeful. I wanted destruction. I wanted pain to come to everything that had caused me hurt. I wanted blood._

_I still do. _


	2. Chapter 2

Guess I should probably introduce myself. My name is Lola Consuelo Cortes. I am almost twenty-six years old and I've been hunting ever since I got these damn scars. Don't get me wrong. I _own_ my scars. I take them with me everywhere I go. I can't picture being the woman I am today without them–and hell, it's not like I don't get any action with them. I've kept my body toned enough to keep up with demons and tricksters alike and I've been told by many a drunken man in the hazy neon illuminated motel room that my figure makes up for my half destroyed face. Sure, I'd like to have that side of my face be as pretty as the other, but I wouldn't have the fuel I get from looking in the mirror like I do now. Every time I look at myself I feel this white hot rage, like nothing can ever cool it and the only way I can make it stop hurting is to hurt something else.

That's what keeps me going. That's what keeps me killing evil. I know if my Grandpa was still alive he'd tell me to kill for the good of the people the evil has touched. To save the innocents. But I've always been too pissed off to worry about anyone else but myself. I'll say it flat out so you're not surprised later on. But I guess my saving factor is that I can heal people. Never really sure how that happened. That medicine man back in Puerto Rico must have messed up some wires when he was gluing my body back together and switched something freaky on. All I have to do is touch someone and they're brand spankin' new again. My abuelo's theory was always that the medicine man did it on purpose. Used some ancient spell or incantation secretly because he knew someday I'd be hunting the same things my abuelo was. That I would need a little help. Personally, I think it s a load of shit. I can't heal myself –a lot of good that does me in my profession.

I've been learning how to hunt ever since the incident. I've been on my own since I was sixteen, when my grandpa thought I was old enough to leave home. For the first few years I was bent on tracking werewolves. More specifically, I wanted to find the ones that had chewed me half to hell and murdered my grandmother. The trail took me all the way to America and the pickings are so good here when it comes to the supernatural, I've decided to stay. I never did find those bloodthirsty bastards but that doesn't mean I've stopped looking. I've just put them on the backburner for a bit while I hunt down other stuff.

It's not a glamorous life, I won't lie. But I've never been a high maintenance kind of girl. I'm completely _arrancao _more often than not –I don't have a penny to my name. But I get by. I work small jobs, I get fake IDs, I go hungry, etc. The hunters in America or at least this side of the country are a pretty close knit group though; they look out for each other. Most of them are pretty down to earth too. They're the only people in this damn world who don't look reproachfully at my scars. But speaking of other hunters, I guess I should start this off by telling you how I met the infamous Sam Winchester. It wasn't the greatest moment of my life, I'll tell you that much.

As I said before, life as a hunter isn't glamorous. We see a lot of horrible things. And those of us who are alone turn to the bottle more often than not and get pretty sloppy when we do so. It's a great escape for us. To me, being drunk feels weightless. Like the world floats away. For a few hours I live the life of the common person. With no knowledge of monsters and evil -no blood on my hands, no hunger for it. I'll admit I've had a problem with alcohol in the past and can never shake the pesky bastard off my heels. But for the first time in my life I can thank it for more than early morning headaches and motion sickness.

I was at a nightclub doing shots. I was already pretty far gone at that point and most people were steering clear of me. If not for my slurred Spanish to no one in particular, then definitely the scars. But for those as drunk as I was, my scars melted away. And all they got was an eyeful of my long caramel legs, my shamelessly revealed abdomen and barely covered breasts. I don't exactly remember what I had come to the nightclub that evening to forget –honestly most of it is still a blur. Anyway, I was sitting like the sloppy, slutty drunk I was, playing with the stem of a cherry with my lips when the man of the hour waltzed in. At the time, I had no idea who he was. I had heard of the Winchester brothers. Generally a pretty pair, opened the gates to hell, caused general mayhem and pissed a lot of hunters off before Dean Winchester died and his brother vanished off the map. But I'd never seen them in action and passed Sam Winchester off as just another face at the bar.

Another devilishly handsome face, mind you. Alcohol tends to make my hormones skyrocket. He sat close enough at the bar to me where I could casually ogle him from under my lashes. He ordered a heavy drink and a shot of whiskey and downed the two right before my very eyes like they were nothing. I was pretty hammered but could still read deep seeded pain in the handsome stranger's eyes. He was drinking to forget. You could always pick the type out at the bar. He grimaced after downing the shot and gestured for another. That one went down just as quickly. I enjoyed the muscle in his jaw jumping as the alcohol threatened to throw him off his chair with its potency.

I decided I would be the one to show him a good time. Whatever he was trying to forget, I'd help him. With feline movements I eased myself from the barstool. I did not try to conceal my scars as I made my way over. I had a system when working in my drunken state when it came to my appearance. Men were normally similar –first they'd be torn between disgust, laughter and attraction. They wanted to scoff at my hideousness and I'd let them for a moment. But then I'd wait until their eyes moved downward. Until they noticed I had the body of a dancer, the hips, the legs, the hardened shape of a goddess, that I could do a split, shake my ass like only a Latina can and throw my heel behind my head. Then they'd stop laughing.

Confidently, I came up behind the long haired man and eased my hands down his chest from behind. I growled gently in his ear when I felt the hard pectoral muscles under my eager fingers and his warm heart beat. (Really, I'm a much more distinguished, dignified woman when I'm not drinking. Promise. As I said before, this was not one of my finer moments.)

"Would you like to dance?" I asked in a slurred voice. My accent was so heavy in my stupor I wasn't sure if he understood me. He tensed under me. I could sense his uncertainty as he looked back over his shoulder at my face.

Whether it was curiosity or my cleavage though, after a few moments of contemplation he rose from his seat. His face was still hard, eyes dark. Something heavy was weighing on his shoulders. A part of him was missing. But I was confident in my abilities, I would blow his mind. I would make him forget whatever was troubling him so.

"Sure," the man nearly stumbled off the stool and had a hard enough time regaining his balance with the whiskey hitting his system.

"_Ay, fantastico_," I murmured gently. I tightened my grip around his impressive forearm as he finally stood, coming to stand at least a head taller than me. His broad chest met my eyes and it was all I could do to keep from ripping his clothes off with my teeth right then and smelled like soap and cologne. It was a soft scent, gentle. I nearly melted into it as we headed out towards the dance floor.

The music thumped hard under our feet. I could feel the vibrations of the bass all the way up my spine which I pressed into the handsome stranger's chest. At first he was uncomfortable. His body was stiff and nearly immovable as I spun my hips and grinded against him. I could feel his inner turmoil that I suspected easily as it translated into his limbs. He still hadn't fully shaken whatever was bothering him. That heavy weight had made him weary and though he appeared alert, I felt as though his soul was exhausted. So I danced crazier. I twisted my body like a worm against his, flipped my hair into his face, refusing to lighten up. I wanted this poor stranger to release whatever was holding him down. See, even when I'm drunk I'm capable of empathy!

I raised my arms in the air and then folded them backwards around his neck. Then he finally started to respond. I felt his massive hands come over my hips and guide them against him as I rolled them in time to the music. His chin came over my shoulder and I felt his lips in the crevice of my collar bone as our bodies moved together in the dark, crush of bodies. I laced my fingers with his and let them trail down my bare thighs, letting the bass thrum through our chests. We had such instant chemistry, or so my drunk self wanted to believe. Of course in reality, we were just two lost souls heading for the bottle and illusions of normality. Two torn up people looking to forget in all the wrong places.

Nonetheless, it only took two more songs until he decided to take me to his motel.


	3. Chapter 3

It was not an unusual situation to find myself in. I'd done it time and time again. I could rehearse the movements in my sleep. One night stands were so common for me. Every new town there was a new bar and a new person to fuck away the emptiness with. I'd leave in the morning with that missing piece in me satiated for another week or two and then go onto the next place.

My new stranger and I made our way through the door to his motel room ungracefully, kissing hungrily and madly. We were both ferociously needy for each other, the touch of another person, a tender reminder that we were still somehow human. We both had a void that night and the pain of it was so white hot we were willing to do anything to fill it. Mindless sex with a stranger was as good a solution as any. He kicked the door closed behind us with his foot, as his hands were too occupied roaming over the contours of my back. I could barely break apart from him to breathe and I took heavy, voracious breaths through my nostrils as our tongues explored the soft cavities of each other's mouths.

We didn't bother to turn the lights on. It was always easier to forget when the person was faceless. They'd all become faceless to me. All my conquests were. I used them like chess pieces to push me farther in the game and they were purposeless to me otherwise. Why bother to know their names? I ripped his shirt off over his head and then my hands returned to the rolling muscles of his back. Faceless or not, his body was impressive. His physique was perfectly carved and disciplined and my palms sang as they pressed against the raised contours of his abdomen. My shirt came off next. His hands were arm against my flesh. I felt his fingertips explore the outlines of my scars. He cupped my ribs as we kissed.

His pants shook off as we stumbled into a table. Papers scattered across the floor as I was laid gently back onto the wooden surface while he tugged my skirt off. His movements were soft and boyish, but impatient enough to take control. I groaned gently as his hands slid up my legs. I straddled his ribs and crossed my feet over the small of his back. Our lungs filled with air and pressed against each other. I felt his heartbeat. He picked me up then like I was nothing. His heavy arms encircled me, veins protruding in his impressive biceps. I melted into his chest. Warmth overwhelmed me. And for the first time in a long while, I wanted to cry. The emptiness in me was screaming in agony, writhing around. How long could it be satisfied with empty love, strange beds and unfamiliar bodies? How long could I go before I finally dissolved without an embrace like this from someone I loved?

Before I could mourn too long, we were moving. My legs were tight around his middle and my fingers pulled at his hair as he carried me over to the bed. We did a tango glide together and spilled over the mattress as one fluid form. So connected in our act of intimacy and yet so very, very far apart from one another. We may as well have been standing on the opposite sides of the world. He nibbled at my shoulder as the last of our clothing faded away. His touch woke goose-bumps all over me. I wondered if he noticed me shuddering. We met eyes. We were both so very passionate with our bodies but hollow stared back at empty.

My stranger finally pulled the sheets over our naked bodies and we began to forget.


End file.
